A Knife and Two Hearts
by dreams.wishes
Summary: "Someone's going to die, and I won't let it be you." Clove is a ruthless girl from District Two. She longs to become a victor and make the things wrong in her life right, but when she is reaped to go up against Cato, things she never thought would happen to her—especially love—trap her in a serious situation between life, love, and one knife. {Clato is Forever} dream.wishes


_I do not own the Hunger Games nor the most of the characters in this story, Suzanne Collins does. However the story and plot is mine, and I ask that you do not take what is not yours and claim it as your own elsewhere. See you at the end..._

Blood is not what makes me thirst to kill. It's the fear in their eyes, the pure surge of adrenaline, the plea that never comes out their throats. District two of the nation of Panem raised this monster inside of me, vicious, cruel, hungry for prey. They will soon learn that _this_ monster will not be someone's toy.

...

My name is Clove. This year I am fifteen. I have dark, straight hair that falls a little past my chest and green eyes fringed with thick, long eyelashes, The shade of my eyes is peculiar, dark like forest pines in the summer that slowly brightens to the middle, my pupils a pool of night lit by faint stars. I've never cared for my appearance much, though my petite form bothers me because it is often the reason of the judgement coming from others that train in the academy. They think I'm easy, fragile. But those who have made me their enemy, they know they made a big mistake, because I'm not afraid to kill, not afraid to leave a scar, break an arm, or tear them apart.

Reality hits me as my eyes flutter open, squinting at the strong light coming through the window. My dark hair falls over my shoulders, framing my high cheek bones as I kick off the bed sheets, my half-asleep hands fumbling to get dressed for the day. My attire is simple; a black sports bra under a simple tank top and a thin academy jacket, with black and white shorts and white tennis shoes. I tuck a small, dainty-looking knife with a cruel hooked blade under my left foot, and another serrated, sharp dagger on the inside of my jacket. The sound of footsteps echo in my the empty house I call home, their soft noise loud in the silence. I live on the poor side of town, and with no family, no other option, I train at the academy for money. On the contrary, the academy is not so bad. I will be ready for the Hunger Games. Watch your back, Panem.

It is spring, though life has barely begun as if time is still frozen in winter. Nobody dares to look at me, like I am a dog; looking at me in the eye is a challenge, refusing to notice I am there is submissive. Perhaps it is out of respect that they keep away from me, afraid that I will take away what humans most treasure: life. Yet I do not understand, that in this world of tyranny, why would one want to live under the rule of the Capitol? When I'm a victor, I will make those who once ignored me, underestimated me suffer.

I quickly comb my hair into a high ponytail, brushing the locks out of my eyes. Good training means no distraction, nothing in my way. Being late to the academy is punishable, the punishment chosen and done by your own trainer. But I am not late, never late even. In fact, I am early.

I never had the faintest memory of being taught how to throw knives, yet they are my favorite weapon, small, merciless, sharp like me. My finger brushes along the handles of the knives as soon as I enter the training center, breathing in the metallic smell and eyeing the cruelly curved blades.

My eyes jerk at the sound of laughter echoing through the halls as the bulky, muscular shapes of other trainees push through the double doors, followed by the giggling of air headed girls. I grab a knife in my right hand, releasing it with a flick of my wrist at the target. The thud of metal stabbing foam silences them, and I huff in annoyance.

"What's wrong with you?" a spiky-haired blonde yells across the room. I turn to glare at him, my warm green eyes suddenly sharp. His eyes are an icy blue, and his figure is muscular and broad. An arrogant, rich one by the looks.

"Cato." I simply state his name, my voice hard and my full lips squeezed in a line. "If you are seriously going to try to provoke me again, I _will_ leave a scar on that demonic face of yours that you call handsome." I take another fragile-looking knife, fingering the blade until my fingertip dripped with the crimson of fresh blood.

The others laugh, but Cato isn't that stupid. The first knife nicks a girl's ear, causing her to yelp in pain. The second knife slices her cheek. The third knife cuts a lock of her hair. Eyes turn to stare as she screams, pointing at me in accusation. I smirk at Cato's awed, perhaps even angry face.

"New _partner_?" I stare at him innocently. Everyone falls for Cato. Not me. I wait for him to answer, but he knows better than to talk to me like that again.

I bite my lip as Silus, the head trainer of the academy walks in. He is tall and muscular, with dark hair and tanned skin. I want to be like him, a victor, someone who everyone respects. Because then, nobody will treat me like a little girl anymore. Silus' entrance is greeted by silence and order. He trains the top tributes, those who will most likely win the Hunger Games. Of course, I am a year younger than the requirements to train with the top, but the academy made an exception. Maybe you can also guess who has Silus as a trainer.

I suck in a breath as Silus beckons to me and Cato, my body tense and humming with electricity. "Kentwell, you and Hadley better be improved today." He says as he gestures to weapons. As usual, Cato chooses a heavy sword, long and gleaming in the light. My eyes burn with determination, almost goading him when I catch his blue eyes on me. I take five knives, each different and designed for pain.

We face each other, and because I am supposed to be faster, I make the first move. My knife makes a gash in his arm, causing him to drop his sword. I kick his weapon farther away from him and pin him down, the blade of my knife on his neck. He uses his strength and flips me around, his left hand holding me down, his right tugging at my small wrist. He smells like trees and sweat. I knee him in the stomach, forcing him to let go and tumble on the floor away from me.

_So yes, I'd say Clove is paranormal, but she is a lovely character in appearance and personality. I can't say I have written her to fit the Clove that Suzanne Collins owns, but I know that it at least displays her vicious side. Comments? Crits? Suggestions? _


End file.
